hurry
up, we are, perhaps, dreaming •• of Central Valley countryside or downtown
Oakland, Ca. basement apartments •• Deutsche Grammophon conductors ••
interpreting “The Merry-Go-Round Broke Down” in thrall, imaginably •• to Looney
Tunes femmes fatales— •• no, that’s probably a faulty emotion •• we most likely
need San Francisco city council meetings •• as seen fuzzily •• through a pair
of 1950s Rembrandt VHF/UHF bunny ears •• or snow falling on weeping willows— ••
the slender legs of Tina Turner dancing the Varen’ka •• O, how we become
startled •• to find ourselves in our own personal snug harbour of such
renowned, ridiculous reverie •• correspondingly, i put a songbird •• in my
throat to wreak havoc w/ the voice-recognition software— •• this is crucial ••
b/c it is there we introduced the lyrical “i” •• as in: I SHOCK MYSELF ••
taking a Stihl FS45 weed trimmer to a bed of geraniums— •• yet, i never thought
this day wd come •• reading Blaise Cendrars on the Trans-Siberian Express
toward Vladivostok •• or, chasing a ground squirrel across a golf course in an
April rainstorm— •• “O, where will you find me now?” •• my lover whispers •• of
something collapsing & being built simultaneously •• as she pulls a Tijuana
Bible •• from her Frederick Mellinger of Hollywood Marabou Peignoir— •• the
catalog says it’s 1964 •• so i name a blue heron Deep Throat •• & rent “All
the President’s Men” from the old Video Station on Wilshire Boulevard— •• the
palm trees erupt, O what a tremendous time we’re having: •• Emily Dickinson
analyzing Donald Barthelme short stories •• Charlotte Rampling reading Dick
Tracy comics from the 40s •• on a St. James Chaise from J. Robert Scott— •• but
the typewriter ODs •• as i shove the aforesaid flower wreckage into a 1929
Pierce-Arrow radiator •• thinking of ekstasis & the angriest man in jazz—
•• the tiny particulates dusting •• my copy editor’s Duckie Brown wingtip
shoes— •• a Lefaucheux revolver & a Rand McNally World Portrait desk-top
globe •• i heard everything disappearing •• “i want to make mistakes & fall
in love,” i whisper •• thinking of her pretty blue dress as it liberates the
lust •• of many a wallflower •• one can speculate that his romantic hopes were
unfulfilled •• as she tells him to slow down— •• it’s the serial crises of
imagery •• envisioned as hand-to-hand combat w/ dinosaur fossils •• as i
adjudicate the brass tacks of another dream— •• “O, the wine tasted like a
marching band in the rain,” i thought •• as i had poured another glass of
McManis Viognier •• everything i will have done is symbolized in the
past-perfect future •• a paper full of treble •• it’s the matter my pop culture
references will be forgotten in a couple of years •• i.e., Willa Cather w/ her
Beats by Dr. Dre headphones

05 July 2012

fist fight in a grocery store ••
theories on brevity •• this is verifiably a pome abt telecommunication systems
•• concerning the extraordinary patterns as seen on re-runs of Rubicon on AMC
•• (w/ a strategy borrowed from Charles Simic) •• or today feels like how Casey
Kasem felt when he first reflected upon the day that music died •• b/c in the
snowdrift •• there was something, but it wasn’t consolation •• the decimal
points of white noise reifying •• a prospect of flowers •• i imagine a cleaner
from Cosa Nostra taking a vacuum cleaner to white noise •• blood dislocated all
over the daytime •• Melrose Place on Fox in the shape of Our Lady of the
Flowers •• my U-turn at 3:27 a.m. •• shoving the Aurora Borealis into my eyes
•• or a little house on the prairie •• into Freemasonry •• w/ Prince and the
New Power Generation’s “7” •• as a suggestive soundtrack for jungle fever in
Jerusalem •• how irresistible, really, a Playboy Bunny in a snowsuit •• (by the will of Zeus •• undress!) •• else, the silhouette of a
stick figure named Pluto •• as it contemplates •• euthanasia or Elton John or
existentialism or eroticism •• that one Metallica video w/ scenes from Johnny
Got His Gun •• on Wednesday afternoon, Sappho seducing Eros •• humdrum & a hacksaw
•• harbouring the august of our discontent •• i presume •• “i will just never
describe you” •• the heart of a crocodile w/ Pomp & Circumstance •• i admit
•• “you are beautiful, if you wd only be real” •• it’s just the rainwater edged
against yr breasts remind me •• Lady Day consulted the idea of fire for me ••
as i was gorgeously lost •• clocking the wrong dreams w/ sympathetic research
& hysteria •• my sleep deprivation •• implicated in the squadron of
silhouettes •• a thousand discoloured letters like injured birds •• somewhere
an owl hooting in amusement •• to flapper phonographs w/ Jesus hummingbirds ••
berserk like Ping-Pong in a garage •• or a Crusader quantum-leaped into the
future •• onto a Pop Warner Wiffle Ball field •• she whispers, “you sir, are
certifiably 5150” •• but i’m too tired to argue •• or articulate why i wish ••
to bring back the word “affine” •• so this will just have to exist •• then again, i may be convinced
something is categorically wrong •• i.e. sleeping w/ somebody dreaming of
someone else •• i need to stop being such a romantic •• walking past a baby
blue jay in the public gardens •• eating opium w/ Pluto’s mistress of the
moment •• this lady’s name is too much •• i think her stare is perfume •• i
think, the inherent philosophical error of a lit match •• might salvage the
subconscious •• the sibilance of which •• may as well be the national anthem of
Canada •• playing as a typographer’s picas sprout from my torso •• to wit, i
saw a police officer click on their Mag-Lite •• and having lost my way •• i can
believe that •• as the sunshine bores the daylights out of me